Touch
by Poison Vixen
Summary: So much feeling can be contained within a simple touch of the hands. The first three times John held Sherlock's hand he realised that his feelings had grown. The first time that Sherlock held John's hand, he knew there would always be a place for Watson within the inner sanctum of his mind.


**A/N- I realise that there is nothing new about this type of story, but the idea would not stop bothering me after I saw a picture posted on tumblr.**  
**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of its characters. This story is not for profit.**

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**Touch**  
_Three time John held Sherlock's hand and one time Sherlock held his._

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**Awkward Occurrence**

Rain fell from the dark skies in thick sheets. Each plump drop of liquid that landed on the unprotected neck of John Watson felt like a sharp flick to his sensitive skin. Sherlock stood calmly beside him, his thick woollen scarf protecting the pale column of his neck from the bitter rain.

"Why can't we watch from under cover?" John asked once more; he had lost track of how many times he had already asked this question.

"Because," Sherlock reminded him calmly, eyes fixated on the window ten levels up across the road. "There are no clear lines of sight from covered areas."

John sighed and pulled his coat closer to his soaked body. He eyed the navy fabric wrapped tightly around the taller man's neck. If he had known that rain was due to visit their little stake out, he would have grabbed one of his own, or even one of Sherlock's, scarfs before bounding out the door. The thought had not crossed his mind, however, as he was swept up in the usual adrenaline rush that follows his friend's epiphanies. He eyed the warm looking strands of wool and wondered if he could subtly unwind it from that thin neck without the owner noticing.

"There," Sherlock hissed, jabbing a finger towards the window he had been dutifully starring at for the last half hour.

John followed his line of sight and watched as the lights of the apartment were flicked on. Silhouettes moved about in the main room. One was female, Janice Roscratt, the woman they had witnessed leave the apartment and a mystery man.

"Who do you suppose that is?" John asked, watching as the two shadows moved about in the small London apartment.

"Another suspect," Sherlock supplied, his eyes lighting as a slight smile cocked the corner of his lips.

John knew that look, a new variable had just been discovered in their case and Sherlock was thrilled.

"Ms. Roscratt had an accomplice in the murder, hence why she was able to be there without really _being_ there," Sherlock muttered to himself.  
John sighed as thunder sounded overhead.

"Congratulation, you found what you were looking for. Now, can we please get out this bloody rain?" John asked, turning away from the apartment.

"Yes, yes just a moment," Sherlock muttered, his hand fluttering in Johns general direction.

"_Now_, Sherlock, you may believe you are impervious to human illnesses, but I know for a fact that one of us will become ill if we stay out in this blasted rain for any longer," John moved to Sherlock's side in hopes of gaining his attention.  
"Yes, yes whatever you say John,"

John let a quick huff of air and dropped his head for a moment. He was going to have to drag Sherlock home. The ex-military man grasped the thick cuff of the consulting detective's coat and tugged until he absently began to follow his lead.

Lightning streaked across the sky in a sudden violent flashed of power that raised goosebumps on Watson's body. He shuddered when a particularly brutish crash of static electricity shook the shop windows beside him. John cast a quick glance towards the man he was leading. Sherlock's eyes were glazed over as his mind ran over possible situation and solutions pertaining to their current case. His step faltered as another mighty crack echoed around him. He slipped his rain slicked hand into Sherlock's and urged the man to move faster.

A smile snuck its way onto John's face a 221B Baker Street came into view. He cast a quick glance around him before dragging the still scheming Sherlock across the water logged tar that once resemble a road. He thrust a jittery hand into his sodden pockets and yanked out his keys. It took several tries, but the door was soon unlocked and a panting John Watson bolted inside; one hand still wrapped tightly around Sherlock's.

Snippets of memory floated to the forefront of John's mind. The smell of blood soaked earth and the thick scent of smoke clogged his throat as lightning danced outside. John took in a deep breath, held it for ten seconds, then exhaled slowly. When he opened his eyes once more he saw the face of his flat mate and friend, staring at their clasped hands with curiosity gleaming in his grey eyes.

John released his tight hold of Sherlock's hand and smoothed down the pockets of his soaked coat; a slight warmth washed over his cheeks.

"Right," He announced, making his way up the stairs to their shared flat. "I'll make some tea shall I? You'd better change so you don't catch a cold Sherlock."

Sherlock remained silent as he stared at the now empty cup of his palm. The most curious sense of warmth had seeped into his flesh when John had held his hand, now that he was gone a slight tingle was all that remained.

"Yes, yes whatever you say John," Sherlock muttered as he disappeared into the labyrinth of his own room.


End file.
